


Catch and Release

by shealwaysreads (onereader)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bodyguard Harry Potter, Bonding Spell, Enemies to Forced Bonding to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feels, Forced Bonding, Forced Cohabitation, Forced Proximity, Happy Birthday Tacky!!, Happy Ending, M/M, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Touch Averse Draco Malfoy, Touch-Starved Draco Malfoy, Touch-Starved Harry Potter, Well - Freeform, Wizarding Traditions (Harry Potter), also, minor harry/omc, personal boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26622664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads
Summary: Wizarding Britain is changing; a slow integration with the Muggle world has begun, and Draco Malfoy has been summoned from his quiet life crafting wards in France to help. But that’s not what this story is about.This story is about Potter, and magic, and the courage it takes toreach out.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 58
Kudos: 888





	Catch and Release

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts).



> For my darling Tackytiger! This is the second birthday fic I’ve written for you, and I’m as grateful for your friendship now as I was a year ago—here’s to more chat, more laughs, and more setting the world to rights ❤️
> 
> Maesterchill, M0stlyVoid, and p1013 - thank you for all your help ❤️

“Don’t touch me.” 

Potter’s outstretched hand curled closed into a fist and dropped to his side, a queasy-looking combination of anger and offence on his face. “Fine, suit yourself.”

Draco grit his teeth and hauled himself to his feet. He could already feel bruises forming along his side; whatever curse had been fired at them had a sting in its tail. Potter kept his hands to himself, as requested, but he hovered annoyingly close to Draco with his expressive brows and his smart robes and his wand in his hand. Worse still, a whispering urge tingled in Draco’s fingers; he wanted to reach out to Potter, he wanted to trace the dark lines of his uniform, so different from the Auror-red he used to wear, and slip his fingers underneath to seek out warm skin and muscle. Draco _wanted_. Suddenly and inexplicably. 

They had attracted a small audience, Ministry workers on their way into the office, pausing mid-stride to look on with a grotesque mix of concern and hungry curiosity. Whoever cast the spell was long gone; Potter had hit the ground at the same time as Draco so he hadn’t been able to give chase, and none of these imbecilic office-workers had the nous to catch the perpetrator before they slipped away into the morning rush. 

If it had just been a Stunner, or a Tripping jinx, then Draco would have shrugged it off and continued his day in a vague state of ire with Potter dogging his heels (Draco had argued against the need for a bodyguard, and argued fiercer still when he found out who was assigned to him). But Draco wasn’t a lucky man, and this wasn’t a lucky day, and whatever spell had hit him and Potter with that sickly yellow light was far from a simple hex.

“Malfoy, I feel a bit—” Potter broke off, and the look on his face wasn’t one Draco was familiar with. He was flushed, and his jaw was clenched, and his eyes were flashing, but not with anger. “I think we need to head into the Ministry, speak to someone about this.”

“ _Obviously_ , Potter. Things have rather escalated if I’m being cursed in broad bloody daylight.” He sneered. “And to think they told me you were the best personal security the Ministry could offer. Fat lot of good that did me.”

Potter’s jaw worked, but despite Draco’s needling, his voice was admirably even when he spoke. Draco wanted to slap him. “It hit me too, I didn’t go down just because you knocked into me, you know.” He looked at the crowd around them, and his expression shuttered. “Let’s go to the visitor entrance.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but followed. It was deeply tedious that the Ministry still hadn’t returned to allowing Apparition directly into the building, though Draco had to admit it was perhaps wise to restrict movement in and out of the Ministry, given the events of his morning so far. The tingling in his fingers had already grown to a wasp-sting hum, and the tantalising slope of Potter’s shoulders as he strode ahead of Draco felt just as threatening. He led Draco to an old-fashioned Muggle telephone box; it was red, and tiny, and grubby, and Draco sneered at the prospect. 

“Muggles don’t even use these anymore, do they?” Draco asked. 

But Potter ignored him as he stepped inside and pressed the dimpled silver numbers and spoke into the receiver; he turned to Draco while he held the phone to his ear, then made an ugly gesture for Draco to join him. 

“I’m not getting in there with you, Potter, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Malfoy, just get in for god’s sake. I don’t want to leave you on the street alone, what if they come back to finish the job?”

“Then you should let me go first, obviously.”

Potter’s plush mouth thinned with frustration, but he still didn’t snap. “Fine. Get in.”

The telephone box smelled musty and was aggravatingly red even on the inside, but as soon as the door shut behind him, it began its slow descent into the Ministry, so at least it worked. But by the time Draco was eye-level with Potter’s well-polished boots, the tingling in his fingers had become a burning sting, and he crossed his arms to restrain the urge to reach up and somehow grab at Potter. When daylight disappeared and he was fully underground, the prickling discomfort spread up his arms, to his neck, to his mouth, a rising tide of pain. It felt like when Draco was six and had picked a berry from his mother’s basket after she had been in the garden; he could remember it perfectly, cherry-red and glossy, irresistible to a child. It had tasted as good as it looked, so sweet and so juicy, and he had reached for a second helping before the burning pain in his mouth had started and he began to wail. _“Be careful darling,”_ his mother had said as she tucked a bezoar into his mouth and wiped away his tears, _“poison can be beautiful.”_

Draco was on his knees by the time the telephone box landed on the Atrium floor, the pain sizzling along his nerves with growing intensity, sharp-edged and bright. He hauled himself to his feet and stepped out of the Merlin-forsaken contraption before it shot back up to the surface, then leaned against the glossy tiled wall to conceal the fact that his legs were about to give out. Tucked away in the corner of the busy arrivals hall, people didn’t even notice him, and Draco was glad of it. He needed the time to school his expression, to calm his breathing, to talk himself down from the cliff-edge of his immediate leap to a possible explanation for his symptoms—it couldn’t be. He hadn’t eaten strange fruit today. 

The telephone box began its return journey, and with every inch of ponderous descent, the radiating pain still singing along every nerve of Draco’s body dulled. Potter stepped out of the compartment, grim-faced and pale, and Draco swallowed down his rising panic. The pain was gone; all he felt, once again, was the tingling in his fingertips, and the want.

  


* * *

  


Potter took them directly to Head Auror Weasley—nepotism at its finest—and explained the issue at hand, unsparing with detail. Draco clenched his jaw and stayed silent while Potter explained the odd buzzing sensation in his fingertips, the pain that grew and grew as Draco disappeared down into the Ministry. Weasley summoned the DMLE Healer, an efficient-looking wizard, but Potter took one look at the man and shook his head. 

“You can check me, Healer.” Draco ignored Potter’s mutinous glare. “I’m sure you’re up to a basic diagnostic.”

He wasn’t. Healer Johnstone cast and cast, and his frown deepened with every glowing result that sketched itself out in front of him. “I’m sorry, Weasley, we’re going to have to send them on to St Mungo’s.” He waved his wand and the blue-green-orange calligraphy floating on the air swept down onto a blank piece of parchment waiting on Weasley’s desk. “It’s some kind of bonding spell, obviously, but I’m not familiar with them. It’s not the sort of thing that gets bandied about much during Auror raids, Sir.”

“Right-o, thanks Johnstone, I appreciate you checking them over.” Weasley was businesslike but warm; his staff probably loved him. “As you were.”

The door had barely shut behind the healer when Potter spoke up. “I think we should ask Hermione.”

“Oh yes, let's get the whole gang back together, shall we?” Draco snapped. “How, exactly, is she more qualified than a St Mungo’s healer?”

The glare Potter shot him was poisonous, but it was Weasley who answered. 

“Hermione’s actually a specialist in bonding magic, she’s been working in the Department of Mysteries for a while now. Cross-discipline research has always been her interest; she started off with an investigation into the magic behind the Dark Mark. The rest…” Weasley shrugged, and Draco understood. They were called Unspeakables for a reason.

They sat in uncomfortable silence while Weasley’s interdepartmental memo winged its way to wherever Granger was. It didn’t take long before the fireplace crackled and burst into verdant flames, and there was Granger in all her bushy-haired, black-robed splendour. Draco bit his tongue and stayed silent while she surveyed the room; thankfully she zeroed in on Potter and started her interrogation there.

“Tell me everything you didn’t tell Johnstone.”

Potter rolled his eyes, but complied readily enough. He was surprisingly insightful in his explanation; detailing everything from the first bone-jarring blast of the curse to the subtle urge to reach out. He carefully avoided eye contact with Draco for the duration of the conversation, of course.

Granger turned to Draco, her dark eyes were bright, and despite the fact her best friend had been caught in the line of fire she looked energised at the prospect of a puzzle. “Malfoy, what about you?”

For a moment, Draco thought about being uncooperative. But despite their animosity at school, he could admit, now, that Granger was a singularly clever woman—and she was a bonafide Unspeakable, which was nothing to be sniffed at.

“Potter was accurate in everything he reported. Johnstone ran diagnostics on me,” Draco nodded to the copy still sitting on Weasley’s desk. “You have my permission to make use of them.”

“You didn’t experience anything different to Harry?”

He hesitated, it had been a long time since he had been in the position that he needed to divulge personal information like this to people he didn’t trust. “He was right about the discomfort when I came down in the phone box without him. It started out like a buzzing pain, like an allergic reaction. And… The impulse to touch. It’s not— It’s not just— It’s not just that it’s out of character for me to want to touch _Potter_ , it’s unusual for me to be inclined to want contact full stop.” Draco clenched his jaw to stop the fumbling spill of words. 

Granger was reading the parchment Healer Johnstone had left behind rather than staring at him during his uncharacteristic stuttering, a kindness Draco was horrified to be grateful for. Potter had no such grace, he was watching him with narrowed eyes and a tilted head. Not for the first time, Draco regretted agreeing to work with the Ministry. He could still be in France, he could still be working on the Beauxbatons wards, he could still be the clever Englishman rather than the ex-Death Eater. He could be far away from Potter and the trouble that clearly still clung to him like a needy child wherever he went.

“Thank you, Malfoy, those details are helpful. May I cast on you?” She gestured to Potter. “You too, Harry. I think I know what you’ve been hit with, but there’s a few more checks I need to make.”

“I’m at your disposal, Granger.”

Potter just shrugged and nodded. Weasley watched them all from behind his desk, and Draco wondered what he was thinking—he’d be a good poker player, his face was carefully bland as he observed but Draco knew he was cataloguing every detail. Granger’s magic was light and crisp as it moved over him, and her wand movements were efficient. She could have been a teacher, Draco thought, if she wasn’t so single-minded. Her spells were subtler than the standard Healing diagnostics Johnstone had cast, more probing, they settled deeper. There was no flashy glow of results, just notes etched onto the parchment she held. She hummed to herself as she read them, then looked up at them both.

“Harry, I’m going to test one last thing. Malfoy, I’m not going to touch you, but this might make you feel uncomfortable.” With that, she reached out and took Potter’s hand with all the casual familiarity of lifelong friends. 

Immediately, Draco’s fingers started burning—at first just like he had dipped them into a too-hot bath, then like he had touched a cauldron still on the fire, then like he was toying with bare flames. He swallowed down the pain and managed to stay silent, but Potter had no such restraint. He yelped and snatched his hand away from Granger, cradling it against his chest and surreptitiously eyeing it as though he expected to see blisters and burns.

“What the fuck? Hermione!” 

“Sorry, both of you.” She didn’t look contrite. “That was my final test, and unfortunately you both passed it. I know this spell, and it’s a bit of a bastard.”

Draco had never heard Granger swear before, and despite the entirety of the last hour he found himself almost smiling. She _was_ human, after all.

“It’s Vincio Animus; it’s pretty archaic, actually. Used to be applied as part of the process for arranged marriages, that sort of thing.”

“Can you undo it?” Weasley asked.

“No.”

Potter looked a bit pale, and Draco was sure his own face was ashen so he forced calm into his voice. “What do you mean, Granger? If it’s a recognised spell, surely there’s a counter to it.”

She shook her head. “There isn’t, only time. It was designed specifically for… reluctant participants.” 

For once, Draco agreed with the disapproving twist of Granger’s mouth. Forced marriages had been the done thing in families like his as recently as the previous century; though his own ancestors had preferred the use of elaborate marital jewellery with curses inlaid along with precious gems, ready to activate should either party renege on their promises, rather than bonding spells. 

“It was a ghastly practice, but the one positive is that this spell is designed to last for the honeymoon period only.”

“The one positive?” Potter asked.

Granger pursed her lips. “There aren’t any others. Because of the nature of this spell—and frankly I would call it a curse myself, but it’s not categorised as such, so it’s technically still legal which is absolutely _ridiculous_ —it is going to affect you both considerably. Daily life will be seriously disturbed while it runs its course.”

“How disturbed?” Draco asked. “I’m back in Britain specifically to work with Minister Burton’s team on the proposed bill for Muggleborn early years inclusion, I’ve got to travel to check on all the Muggle Repelling wards and put together a proposal for the Wizengamot—I can’t allow this ridiculous spell to delay that.”

“Well, I was assigned as your security before you even arrived in London, Malfoy. We were already going to be working closely together so…” Potter trailed off, and shrugged. How he could be so relaxed in the face of such a deeply invasive bonding spell was beyond Draco; he was already counting himself through calming breaths, and holding back from asking what Potter was doing in security when he couldn’t even protect Draco on a Muggle street.

“Harry, you’re going to have to stay in the same house—maybe even the same bedroom depending on how far the proximity element of the spell is regulated, I suspect it won’t allow you far from each other without discomfort or pain.” She paused for a moment, and her brows twitched into a frown. “And as it was designed to encourage newlyweds, this curse has a strong compulsion component; you’re both going to want to touch each other—likely intimately—”

Draco could hardly hear over the sudden rush of blood in his ears, and interrupted Granger before he could stop himself. “Does the curse _require_ us to touch? Or…” He didn’t finish, but from the look on her face, Granger well understood what he wouldn’t say.

“It doesn’t— Nothing will happen if you don’t touch, but it _will_ be deeply uncomfortable to go without.”

“But it doesn’t require it.”

“No, no, it doesn’t.”

“Good.” Draco turned away from her reassuring expression, galled that he was so obviously discomfited, and eyeballed Potter. “Potter, don’t touch me.”

“I haven’t touched you _once_ , Malfoy, and I’m not about to. Christ almighty.” 

Draco felt old habits roaring to life, and the urge to snap back at Potter was almost as compelling as the bonding spell. But Weasley interrupted what would have likely turned into a humiliatingly juvenile spat before it could begin.

“Harry, you were already on security detail for Malfoy for the next month. I’ll have to station Aurors on whatever property you two end up in, but I can’t see that there is any point assigning an additional agent to the job.” He glanced at Malfoy. “Is that alright with you?”

Having another witness to the impending shitshow with Potter was not high on Draco’s list of desires, but he managed a polite nod in response rather than the rant that was already building.

“Right. I don’t think it would be fair to ask Malfoy to stay in your house, Harry, or vice versa. I reckon one of our safe houses would suit the situation well. I’d like to move the two of you regularly while we investigate, in case whoever cast this on you wants to come back for a second go. You can Side-Along each day to Malfoy’s meeting and site visits. Are you both amenable?”

“Yes.” Potter’s agreement was hardly enthusiastic, but he had at least lost the sullen edge that had coloured every word he spoke when he was a teen. 

“Yes, Weasley.” Draco swallowed his pride. “Thank you.”

  


* * *

  


Two single beds, neatly made, stood no more than a foot apart in the small bedroom Draco found himself in. They moved every two nights, a tedious journey from safehouse to safehouse—all small, all spartan, and all uncomfortably intimate. They were designed for Aurors working undercover or tracking suspects, or for short-term witness protection. Not for the extended drag of a bonding spell that clutched just as tightly now, a week into their forced proximity, as the first moments he and Potter were shackled together. Tonight they were in Brighton; Draco could hear the endless susurration of waves washing over the shingles from the open window, and for a moment he closed his eyes and imagined he was alone. 

Draco hadn’t been alone for seven days and nine hours. He didn’t mind being around people; he loved his friends, his chosen group of confidantes. He even enjoyed the superficial wining and dining that came with his job; he was good at it, it reminded him of his childhood. But he couldn’t stand _this_. This trap of magic and circumstance that meant he _couldn’t_ leave, he _couldn’t_ walk away from Potter. It felt all too similar to his sixth year at Hogwarts, and his seventh, too. 

In the years since the end of the war, Draco had plotted his way through the quagmire of panic attacks and neuroses, sound in the knowledge that he could step away at any time; he could leave a party, a class, or the country. He could be patient, and charming, and restrained, and hide every twitch of fear or regret as long as he could escape. Excuses, staff exits, promises to arrange another meeting; Draco knew every escape route from every social situation, and he used them often. To be tied, once again, to another wizard—to have his body and magic fettered, to be _trapped_ —it was almost unbearable. 

Potter’s steps were light, but his presence was weighty even though he maintained his carefully respectful distance when he stopped behind Draco—he hadn’t yet asked why Draco disallowed the merest contact beyond the necessities for Apparition, and Draco was pathetically glad for it. “Alright, Malfoy?”

Draco closed his eyes and counted to three before he replied. “It will do.”

“Christ, you’re such a stuck-up bastard, aren’t you? ‘It will do.’ Sorry we’re not in the Dorchester.”

Draco dropped his valise at the bottom of the bed furthest from the door—Potter was the security of this farce and insisted on sleeping between Draco and any points of ingress so he could deal with any intruders, as though Draco was a helpless third year—and sighed loud enough for Potter to hear. “I _did_ say that I would pay for the suite. I just don’t see why we have to keep moving around these Merlin-forsaken dives.”

“It’s not a dive, Malfoy, it’s a flat.”

“Barely.”

“It’s better than a lot of people have. And me and Ron already explained that this move to integrate Muggleborns early on has really rubbed some people the wrong way—the ones that are angry about the integration want to try and stop it by taking you out of the equation, as if there aren’t other Ward Wrights out there, and then the ones that are angry about it being _you_ involved in it all… Well, their motives are obvious, aren’t they?”

“Quite.” Draco slipped his robes off and dropped them into his bag, letting its inbuilt charms deal with cleaning and folding and stowing them away. He cast a Disillusionment charm over his side of the room so he could get into his pyjamas in privacy. He was tempted to leave it up all night, but that would mean foregoing the sight of Potter’s face softened by sleep, and Draco wasn’t proud enough to turn his back on the opportunity. A week—just a week—and despite the cloying compulsion laying heavily over him, Draco knew this quiet desire to watch Potter and learn him wasn’t new, it wasn’t born of this spell. 

Potter was lying, fully clothed, on his own bed when the spell dissolved. His arms were crossed behind his head and he was attempting to smirk. “I see we’ve moved to the monosyllabic section of the evening, have we?”

“And you’ve moved to the smug, annoying, bastard stage of _your_ night. I’m tired, if you must know.”

“Well then, good thing you’re ready for an early night.” Potter nodded at Draco’s pyjamas. “I want to go for a run in the morning—down the beach maybe—and you’ll have to come with, so I hope you’ve got trainers in that bag of yours.”

Potter, of course, meant every word he said. So Draco found himself jogging along hard-packed wet sand the next day at dawn, with Potter beside him clearly restraining his energy to keep pace with Draco and the spell lashing them together. It wasn’t that Draco was unfit; he cared for his body appropriately, he took pride in the sleek lines of well-tailored suits and robes that fitted his lean shape. But he had spent the last decade carefully restricting his bodied experience. He took comfort in the cerebral, the internal, the careful self-restraint that had kept him afloat through one crisis after another. Potter was his opposite; he was utterly physical. He kept whining about not being able to hug his friends, or go flying—they tried it the night they were in Bath, safely ensconced in the wizarding quarter, but couldn’t keep close enough for long enough to avoid the inevitable pain of separation—and his half-smirking, half-sheepish anecdotes implied a similar physical abandon with a series of casual lovers. Draco had his reasons for his vigilant isolation, his solitary indulgences, and he was sure Potter had his own for the wild embrace of touch and the stretch of his own muscles as he loped along the waterline. 

So they ran together, keeping careful pace, and careful distance. Draco’s lungs were full of sea-salt air and the sound of Potter panting beside him.

  


* * *

  


“There’s only one bed.”

It had been a fortnight, and the urge to reach out and touch Potter was a gnawing, unsatisfied hunger now. They stood a foot apart, so it wasn’t intense, but it was an ever-present abrasion in Draco’s core, a constantly demanding instinct in his fingertips. It was deeply exhausting. This was their seventh safe house, another bland flat—this time in Wolverhampton—but there was no neat single bed for Draco to fold himself into. There weren't even two duvets on the frankly undersized double the place was furnished with. 

Potter’s irritation was tangible before he even spoke. “I can fucking _see_ that, Malfoy. So what?”

“So we’re not sharing it.”

Potter’s only response was a sigh, and a twitching muscle in his tightly clenched jaw. Draco couldn’t believe how patient Potter was being—Draco knew well enough that he bitched and moaned and rolled his eyes all too frequently, but Potter hadn’t hit him yet. Perhaps today was the day. Because there was no way Draco would sleep in the same bed as Potter, not even with this stupid spell, _especially_ not with this spell.

“We can share it, Malfoy. It’s big enough for two bloody adults. There’s no bloody sofa in this shithole.”

“Well, I’m glad you can agree it’s a shithole. But this particular dump is _your department’s_ solution to the issue at hand. Take it up with them.” Draco felt his lip curling with anger; he still couldn’t tamp down his infuriatingly revealing expressions around Potter, not even with a fortnight’s exposure under his belt. “I’m not sharing a bed with you, Potter. Not even if it means I have to sleep on the street and burn all night.”

Potter pursed his lips, ground his teeth, and breathed heavily through his nose. He closed his eyes, and Draco thought _this is the moment_ and prepared for a blow. But it never came. Potter turned away from him and moved to the window; he stared out at the Muggle multi-story car park across from the flat as though it held the secrets of the universe, and his shoulders moved slowly with his measured breaths. Draco’s fingers tingled with the need to stroke along the breadth of Potter’s back, to discover if the curls of dark hair at the nape of his neck were as soft as they looked. He clenched his own hands into fists.

“You take the bed,” Potter said.

Draco frowned at the unexpected victory, but Potter was still staring at the grey Fiat that was on his eye-level, so it was a wasted effort. 

“I was going to.”

“Yeah, figured that, thanks.” Potter turned, and his face was carefully neutral. He took one of the pillows from the bed, and then grabbed one of the towels that sat on the open shelves of the wardrobe. His Transfiguration was quick and efficient, and in moments he was laying a sleeping bag down on the floor next to the bed. 

“You’re going to sleep on the floor.”

“Excellent observation skills there, Malfoy. I sure as fuck hope you manage more than that in the legislative meeting tomorrow.”

“But—” Draco broke off in the face of the glare Potter shot him. 

“It’s eleven at night, you’ve been in meetings all day and I’ve been haunting the fringes looking out for whatever Anti-Integration nutter has decided _you’re_ the biggest risk to Wizarding society. This shithole is the only safe house currently available, and they had an incident here last weekend so we’re _lucky_ it even has the bed—the decontamination after the Baneberry potion explosion took for-fucking-ever.” Potter shrugged out of his robes, and unbuttoned his trousers with brisk, angry jerks. “So the most I can Transfigure is cloth to slightly-comfier cloth, and now I’m going to sleep on the floor because you don’t want to share that bed, and that’s okay. So just—shut up.” 

Potter was down to his boxers now. They were black, and tight, and his thighs were well muscled and hairy, and there was a ragged scar on the inside of his right knee, and Draco wondered what might have made it, wondered what it would feel like to stroke, wondered if Potter still had sensation along the pink paleness of the scar tissue, and he had already taken a step towards Potter before he realised he was moving. So he turned away and grabbed his travel bag to hide the shuddering breath that shook from his lips. “Fine.”

The bathroom was tiny, but clean, and the distance between the shower cubicle and where Potter still sat was small enough to allow a private moment, so Draco showered and carefully focused on the drum of hot water on his shoulders, the swirl of suds going down the drain; anything except the way every inch of his skin screamed out for touch. It had been a long time since… It had been a long time since he had wanted to touch, or to be touched. And the fact that it was a spell dragging this weakness out of the locked box he had stowed it in for the last decade was enough to make him nauseous. It had been spells that had robbed him of the desire for touch before, that had suspended his control over his own body, left him vulnerable and open to use. 

Draco rested his forehead on the cool tiles and swallowed down the rising bile, and forced himself to recall every moment Potter could have touched him but didn’t, every inch of space he afforded Draco while they danced around each other in too-small flats and bedsits. Potter used to be able to resist Imperio, Draco had seen it himself, so he must be able to resist this spell too. Maybe it was easy for him, but it was difficult for Draco. It was difficult, and that made it all the worse.

Potter was already in his makeshift sleeping bag when Draco left the bathroom, but thankfully he’d cast Nox before he settled down, so Draco didn’t have to confront the freckles that dusted his shoulders again. He had discovered them the previous day as they dressed in the small gap between the twin beds squeezed into the one-bedroom flat in Middlesbrough. It was a small mercy though, because the orange streetlight outside still lit the room enough to outline the shape of Potter’s body; softened by the downy nest he’d conjured for himself, but still unmistakably strong and lean. The curve of Potter’s neck offered up the gold-limned flicker of his pulse; he wasn’t asleep, but he stayed silent and still as Draco quietly stepped around him to climb onto the bed.

The sheets were cheap and cold, but safe. No weight pressed on the mattress other than Draco’s own, there was no threat of unexpected breath on the back of his neck, no risk of unwanted whispers in the darkness. He lay still and silent on his side, staring across the room; Potter lay between him and the door, between him and escape, between him and danger. Even this close, the magic of the Vincio Animus spell was working hard to draw them together, tingling in Draco’s fingertips, in his lips. It was the same urge to reach out that he felt when he came in from a frosty walk and stood in front of the roaring fire, to hold his hands out and feel the heat settle into his skin, his muscles, his bones, to seek comfort. 

Draco hadn’t touched Potter, not since… Not since he had stamped on his face, sixteen and full of rage and hatred. _No._ Not since Potter had reached out and saved him, swept him up from the voracious flames of Fiendfyre, and Draco had wrapped his arms around Potter’s too-skinny body, hadn’t even thought before tucking his tear-streaked face into Potter’s sweaty neck and holding on. Beside the bed, Potter’s breathing slowed and deepened as he fell asleep. Draco inched to the side of the mattress, carefully quiet, and looked down at him. He was curled up on his side, his hair an inky spill on his pillow even in the near-darkness, and his face was open; jaw soft, mouth parted, brows unfurrowed and smooth. But in sleep, Potter’s hatred for Draco couldn’t halt the inexorable draw of the bonding magic. He was reaching out, his hand upturned and stretched out towards the bed, towards Draco.

It was too much, too tempting, so Draco turned away, rolling to the opposite side of the bed until the distance between them began to prickle. He paused, waited, but Potter didn’t wake; just shifted and huffed a heavy, sleepy, breath. This far and no further, then. It would have to do. Draco wrapped the lightweight duvet around himself, and stared at the orange glow of the streetlight until his vision blurred and the moths fluttering desperately around it turned into shifting shadows.

The morning light was grey and weak, and Draco woke to pins and needles in his arm where it was hanging over the side of the bed. Potter’s fingers were warm against his own, warm and callused from wand and broom. It didn’t seem to matter how far from Potter Draco managed to get himself when he lay down to rest, as soon as he was asleep he would move. He woke up like this every morning; fingertips grazing against Potters, the merest of touches—but still enough to make him want, to make him panic. 

  


* * *

  


It was an old ache, wanting Harry Potter. Wanting Harry Potter to want him. It had been years since the wound had been poked, but the last month had been as good as a Bludger to the soft underbelly of Draco’s carefully-managed emotional history. Harry Potter wanting him was finally happening, and it tasted like ash; a spell creating this false connection had never featured in Draco’s childish daydreams, or adolescent night-pleasures. It didn’t help that his only defence against this secret disappointment was to attack—and he was as vicious as ever, fuelled by the knowledge that he had no reserves, he had no respite, he had no chance of winning this particular battle—like an animal chewing off his own leg to escape a steel trap.

Tonight’s tactic had been to insist on going out, despite Potter’s vehement objections. They were in Glasgow now, holed up in a little studio flat in the West End, surrounded by too-cool vegan cafes and pubs and clubs full of the young and beautiful. Draco well-remembered how to behave like a spoilt child and threw all restraint aside; he dragged his most provocative outfit from his charmed travelling trunk—it was stuff he’d shoved to the back of his wardrobe at home, but it was worth the rummaging to see Potter’s face when he had stepped out of the bathroom. Draco’s shirt was silk, a lustrous dove-grey fabric so fine he knew Potter could see his nipples—he might even be able to see the scars, and he could definitely see the smear of scarred grey on his left forearm. Even though Potter schooled his expression quickly—even though it wasn’t _real_ —Draco revelled in the moments of sheer want that had been etched into his face when he helplessly looked Draco over. Head to toe, and back up, slowly. 

Draco regretted it now. Sitting at the bar—without his usual buffer of Pansy or Armand or the rest of his friends and their ribald jokes and scathing commentary—the hungry eyes on him simply felt slimy. Potter either didn’t notice the way Draco carefully turned away from the obvious letches, or he was ignoring it. But Draco noticed the ones watching Potter. It must happen everywhere he went; even if one disregarded the fame and the fortune, Potter _was_ good-looking. And he wasn’t like Draco, he wasn’t closed down and careful, so the unfortunate arrangement they had fallen into must have curtailed his own uncomplicated social activities.

“Don’t you want to fuck, then?” Potter’s eyes nearly fell out of his head, and Draco belatedly realised how that might sound. “That blond seems to like the look of you, Potter,” Draco nodded to the slim, fair-haired man lingering two seats down from them. “He’s turned away… oh, about three offers so far because he’s hoping you’ll notice him.”

Potter looked over his shoulder, and the man in question straightened, boldly returning the stare. Potter turned back to Draco, a wry smile on his face; he wasn’t _entirely_ ignorant then, at least. “Do you not remember what happened in Ron’s office? Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t touch the bloke.”

“Do you not? Want to, I mean.” Draco asked. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“Go on then, maybe the spell won’t mind. He looks a bit like me.” Draco paused. “Though perhaps we should find you someone who isn’t blond.”

Potter’s eyes darkened. “It’s not his hair colour that’s the issue.”

A flutter of something half-forgotten stirred in Draco’s chest. Harry Potter was flirting with him in a bar. Once upon a time that would have made him happy, but now it sank heavily in his stomach. The leaden weight of magical compulsion hung heavily over every look, every stymied moment of reaching out. It was a lie they were both being lured into believing, and Draco knew better to believe the lies he wished were true these days.

“Go on,” he nodded toward the man still glancing at Potter every other minute. “I’ll dance, you take him round the corner. He won’t take much convincing.”

Potter stared at him for a long moment, and Draco defiantly bore his gaze without faltering, even though there was anger there—hot and electric—and something else, too. 

“Fine.” 

And with that, Potter drained his glass and stood. He turned, and stepped close to his admirer, leaning in to whisper something into his ear. What angle would he play? The confident spec-ops Auror? Or the soul-weary war hero? Or maybe he’d riff on that boyish dimple and lopsided smile, that tendency to artless transparency that had somehow survived all the years. 

Whatever Potter said, whatever expression on his face, worked. The man glanced at Draco over Potter’s shoulder—his eyes were blue and confused, but he still took Potter by the hand, he still led him across the dancefloor, towards the shadowed archway in the back wall and the privacy beyond it. 

They had disappeared from view by the time the pull of the bond stung like nettle-rash, prickling and sharp in Draco’s fingertips, his tongue, the skin over his sternum, so he left his half-finished drink and followed them. He only had to stay close enough that the burn eased a little, Potter could surely cope with the tingle, the draw. So Draco moved into the crowd of dancing bodies, and the incidental brush of shoulders or waving arms didn’t burn like they had at the beginning. He was right, the bond was relaxing its grip on them. 

Still, Draco held himself apart from the people around him as he danced. He didn’t need hands on his hips, or a body to writhe against, he just needed to close his eyes and lose himself for a moment long enough that he could stop thinking about Potter’s eyes, and Potter’s dark hair against the blond of the man at the bar, and Potter’s shoulders in the darkness of each bedroom they had shared for the last month. He needed to stop wondering what Potter might be doing in that shadowed corridor. He needed to focus on now, only now, only the lights changing colour beyond his closed eyelids, the thrum of the bass in his chest, and the brief respite of moving alone.

But he had never been good at ignoring his own curiosity, and worse still at hiding from his demons, so it wasn’t long before Draco opened his eyes and traced Potter’s steps towards the archway leading away from the dancefloor. The tug of the bond drew tighter with every step, eager like a puppy pulling on its leash now that Draco had given in to the lure. He knew what he would find—he had set it up, he had encouraged Potter and egged him on—but the sight of it still took the air from his lungs as surely as a kick to the solar plexus. 

Potter was leaning against the wall, his shirt rucked up and his jeans unbuttoned, and the blond was on his knees enthusiastically sucking him off—quick and efficient by the look of things. Potter’s hand was tangled in sandy hair, and his eyes were fever-bright as he turned towards Draco. He was panting, his chest was heaving, and Draco could see where he’d bitten at his lip to be quiet. Draco couldn’t tell whether the strangling desire to reach out and trace the imprint of Potter’s teeth on soft flesh came from the bond, but the burning ache in his chest—impossible to swallow down—was all him. It wasn’t the magic of the spell, flaring up at Potter being touched by another; it was something far deeper than that, and far more permanent.

“Draco—” Potter’s voice was a whisper, but Draco could have heard it in a storm. And he would never forget the way Potter’s mouth shaped his name as he came into this stranger’s mouth, or the way his face relaxed into slack, post-orgasm bliss. But this was so far from what he had intended, such a deviation from his carefully managed life, that Draco couldn’t even speak; his eyes dropped to the man still nuzzling into Potter’s groin, then back up to Potter’s stunned face, and he turned on his heel and left them both behind him without a word.

He got to the bar, even though the sting of the bond made his eyes water, and ordered a shot of Rusalka vodka. The bartender—curly hair and warm brown eyes—set it down with frost clinging to the glass while he looked over Draco’s shoulder. Draco had known he was coming back, the bond easing as the distance closed. Potter must have declined to return the favour to his new friend. Draco’s drink was ice-sharp when he threw it back, and the alcohol burned more brightly than the magic shackling him to Potter, it smoothed the hard lump that had settled stony and immovable in Draco’s chest enough for him to speak. 

“I’m done for the night. I want to go home.”

Potter didn’t argue, he just followed close and silent on Draco’s heels as he walked out of the bar. 

  


* * *

  


“It’s not dissipated yet, though it definitely must be calming a little if you’re not feeling the acute pain when touching other people anymore.” Draco bit back a hysterical bubble of laughter; if only Granger knew. “Let’s test the distance aspect.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, despite promising to behave. If Potter could just own up and tell Granger about his little back-of-the-club adventure they wouldn’t have to entertain this farce of experimentation, but he was unwilling to even acknowledge it had happened with Draco who had seen—well—almost everything. If Draco himself wasn’t so inclined to avoid addressing the situation he might have told Granger himself. But he didn’t, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the regret from his voice, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to school his expression if Potter looked at him with that strange mix of hurt and anger again like he had when they had got home after their sticky little trip into Glasgow nightlife.

Of course, Granger’s test proved what Draco already knew; the bond was still firmly in place, but the strictures were loosening. Draco had known it that night in the club, and he’d taken that extra length of rope and wrapped it around his own neck. It didn’t take long for Granger to let them go with instructions to report any more changes, though it was hardly likely the bond would do anything other than slowly unleash them.

They were in a flat in Hackney, another two-night stay—though Potter must have pulled some strings because finally, _finally_ , it wasn’t a crappy little bedsit. This one had two bedrooms, and even a proper bath. Draco emerged from the bathroom with pruned fingers and damp hair to find Potter sitting at one end of the sofa, tinkering with one of his little silver devices. They had developed this routine, in their little shared imprisonment; Potter worked on whatever trinket he was building, and Draco read a book, or checked his notes for the next days’ work. For a few nights after the club—and the blond—Potter hadn’t settled with his delicate silver metal and magic after they had eaten; he’d slipped off early to bed instead, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts. So Draco took the implicit olive branch, sat at the other end of the sofa, and opened the novel he’d left on the coffee table.

“What does ‘honeymoon period’ even mean?” Potter asked, breaking the silence after half a chapter.

Draco shrugged, even though Potter was focused on the cogs he was fiddling with and wouldn’t see it. “My parents travelled for two months after they were married. Paris, Monte Carlo, Barcelona. That was their official honeymoon, before Father had to come home and take over the estate.”

“Ron and Hermione went to the south of Italy for a fortnight.” Potter’s hands stilled, though he didn’t raise his eyes from his busy-work. “I don’t actually know if my mum and dad had a honeymoon.”

Draco watched him for a long moment, until the sad sweep of Potter’s lashes against his cheeks became too much. “It’s a ridiculously subjective term, anyway. I’m just glad we can sleep in different bedrooms now.”

“See you _say_ that, but I’m sure you’ll miss it now I won’t be there to stand in between you and danger, and be first up to put the kettle on.”

Having Potter’s half-grin, just one dimple peeking from the shadow of his stubble, directed at him was sweeter than Draco could ever have imagined, it was almost enough to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the weekend. 

“No, I won’t.” He would. “You snore, anyway.” He didn’t. 

Potter went back to working on his half-made bit of nonsense and Draco went back to his book. But it took long, painful minutes for him to think of anything other than the impending absence of Potter’s solid, safe presence in the bedroom that night. It took longer still to shake the urge to reach out and tuck that stray curl of hair behind Potter’s ear, or to trace the place that dimple had curled beside his smile.

  


* * *

  


“Potter, I would understand if— I would understand if you would prefer for me to delay this visit until the spell has fully released us.” Draco _would_ understand—Potter couldn’t have any pleasant memories of his first visit to the Manor—but Draco was already chafing with the long wait to see his mother, and Pansy would be there too, and _fuck_ he just wanted to lean on them for a moment, let the weight of this strange entanglement off his shoulders for the time it took to drink some tea and eat some cake.

Potter shrugged. “It’s alright, I can handle afternoon tea, I’m sure.” 

Draco wasn’t sure where Potter’s reserves of patience and acceptance came from. He couldn’t imagine extending the same calm courtesy towards Potter if he were as demanding and frigid and antagonistic as Draco had been since the very first moment they had crashed to the pavement together, bonded and furious. He wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth just because he didn’t understand it, though.

“Okay, we’ll Apparate to the gates. The wards won’t let you onto the property without me.” He reached out to Potter’s arm but paused before he touched him, “May I?” 

Potter just nodded, and stepped closer, so Draco carefully grasped his forearm and swept his wand. The tight twist of Apparition deposited them outside of the curling cast-iron gates of his childhood home, and Draco closed his eyes for a moment to breathe in the fresh air, the lush green scent of sunkissed fields. This place hadn’t been home to him, not for a long time, but in a moment like this Draco could forget—for the space of a breath—and remember easy childhood summers. 

“Malfoy, the gate’s giving me a funny look—” 

Potter was interrupted by a hoarse shout and Draco opened his eyes to see the same wizard from all those weeks ago brandishing his wand, a look of pure hatred contorting his face. Draco still had his wand in his hand, but before he could raise it to defend himself, Potter grabbed him and pushed Draco behind his back. It wasn’t just one attacker though. Behind Potter, Draco found himself confronted with a horribly familiar face, Edward Albright. He had never become a fully fledged Death Eater, never took the Mark, but he’d attended enough soirees that Draco’s father had hosted to thoroughly expose the ugly hatred of Muggles and Muggleborns that lay beneath the veneer of law-abiding citizen. 

“ _You!”_ Albright snarled, his face twisted with fury. “ _You’re_ helping them expose us! You’re betraying your blood! I’ll burn you, I’ll burn you like they burned us! _Incendio!”_

It was easy to cast aside the first wave of flame, to return a blast of icy air that made Albright’s hands shake so much he almost dropped his wand. Behind Draco, Potter Stunned his assailant, and turned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco. They had spent the last six weeks together; sleeping barely a foot apart, negotiating tiny kitchens, showering with the other hovering on the other side of the curtain, unwittingly learning the microcosm of each other’s existence, but this—this moment of surreal comradeship—this was the strangest, the hardest moment of all to resist. 

Albright ducked away from the hasty Expelliarmus Potter shot at him—once upon a time Draco would have rolled his eyes at the naivety of it, but that was before Voldemort fell dead and Potter’s fury and grace had freed them all with a simple spell he learned when he was twelve. With Potter beside him, Draco relaxed. It was just a fraction, a moment’s hesitation, but that was enough to leave an opening, enough for Albright’s Diffindo to catch him in his side. Bright, gasping pain shot through him, but the attendant rush of adrenaline kept him standing until Albright raised his wand with a manic grin and cast Fiendfyre. That familiar, awful incantation spilled from Albright’s mouth, and gouts of flames fell and formed into monstrous shapes around them, Draco’s nightmares brought to life. 

Potter was shouting, but Draco couldn’t hear him over the roar of fiery maws snapping at them, or the echoing memory of Vince’s last, desperate, falling scream. A strong arm wrapped around him, dragging him down to the ground, and Draco fell back into himself at the impact of body on body, of cool grass beneath him. Potter was above him, his Protego a shining dome holding, impossibly strong, against the strikes of blazing serpents, eagles, creatures with ever-shifting features and ever-hungry mouths, and his body covered Draco’s, a shield within a shield.

“Stay down, Malfoy!” Potter shouted, then turned to cast through his own Shield Charm, a sweeping wave of swirling opalescent light that spun the flames of the Fiendfyre into an ever-tighter sphere. It squeezed the myriad snarling faces into one rage-hot ball of fire, then brightened, blindingly so, until all that was left was a smoking coal. Draco blinked the flare from his eyes while Potter Stupefied Albright then turned back to him. “Are you okay? Draco, are you okay?”

Potter was still lying over him, a heavy protective weight, and he was touching Draco’s face, and there was something frantic in his eyes as he checked Draco’s body; something frightened when he spotted the blood that made Draco’s shirt cling, sticky and unpleasant, against the side of his stomach. 

Draco knew his own face was flushed, he could feel it, he could feel the wide shock of his own eyes—not at being attacked, at _this_ —at Potter covering him with his own body, at this overwhelming closeness after all those weeks of resisting the draw, at the worry in wide green eyes. “Potter, you’re touching me.”

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s not deep, I’ll be fine.” It did hurt, but it wasn’t Sectumsempra, a quick Episkey would do the trick. 

Potter’s brows drew into a disbelieving frown, but he moved up onto his knees—Draco held back a gasp at the sudden distance, yearning despite himself—and clambered awkwardly off Draco’s body to stand. “I’m sorry, Malfoy, I didn’t think—it was just instinct.” 

Instinct. Bonding spells. Empty of choice, and meaningless. 

“Right.”

“Are you okay? Can I—” Harry abortively reached out to offer Draco help to stand, but stuffed his hand in his pocket when Draco ignored it and climbed to his feet himself. He still looked concerned, his gaze dropping to the tear in Draco’s shirt, the blood-saturated cotton. “Let me call the Aurors, they can bring a Healer, then we can head in to the Ministry.”

“I don’t need a Healer, Potter. Though I will need to let my Mother know I won’t make it for tea.” Draco glanced around them, they stood on an island of still-lush grass; beyond the circle of safety Potter’s Protego had afforded, the ground was scorched black, dead and smoking. Albright and his compatriot still lay where they had fallen, unconscious but alive. 

Draco’s first step onto the burnt earth was tentative; he could feel the residual heat of the Fiendfyre through the sole of his shoes, and he wondered absently if the handle to the Room of Hidden Things was still warm. He knew Potter was watching, waiting for him to swoon with blood loss or shock, so he straightened his back and strode confidently to the gates. Elegantly curled cast-iron swirled at his approach, a simple face of leaf and spiral taking shape from metal and magic.

“Greetings.” 

“Let the House Elves know not to expect me for tea, and to pass the message on to Mother.”

“Yes.”

“And leave the bodies where they are, the Ministry is involved.”

“Yes.” The old magic that fuelled the gates and the rest of the boundary of the estate was recalcitrant, but even a slow agreement was enough for Draco. 

Incoming Apparition broke the air with a crack, and Draco groped at his side, safe in the knowledge that Potter was distracted by the arrival of the Aurors. He was right, the Diffindo had only nicked him. It was a little hurt. Draco could manage those.

  


* * *

  


“Anti-integration sentiment; they’re both still raving down in the cells about the old witch burnings, saying the Muggles are going to hunt us for sport and all sorts.” Ron looked at Draco. “They really took the hump with you, Malfoy.”

“I can imagine why.” It was bitter, but expected—he knew there would be backlash when he was brought in to work on the national wards for the amendment to the Statute of Secrecy. Despite Potter’s ruminations, Draco really had just thought it would be people hating that an ex-Death Eater was involved because he had no business working on anything related to Muggles. It hadn’t actually occurred to him that the people who would decide to hunt him down for it might have been his father’s old friends. “Still, Potter was rather quick off the mark to put them all down.”

“You weren’t too bad yourself, Malfoy, you’ve not got so wrapped up in wards that you’ve forgotten how to duel.”

Draco rolled his eyes, uncomfortably aware that he _had_ frozen in the midst of the fight and if Potter hadn’t been there… Well. “That was me complimenting you, Potter, enjoy it. It doesn’t happen often. Anyway, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to hold off Fiendfyre.”

Potter flushed and looked down at his lap, his fingers twitched—he didn’t have one of his little trinkets with him to work on—and Weasley cast a calculating stare at his friend. 

“Knew you were the right man for the job, Harry.” Weasley’s blue eyes slid to Draco, and they were no less probing. “I’m glad you agree, Malfoy.”

“He has proved himself better than entirely useless, after an early failure.” 

“Oh, _charming_.” Potter huffed, but his dimple was peeking out—the quiet fanfare of an impending smile—so Draco knew he understood. 

“Right. Well—” Weasley clapped his hands together and stood. “Hermione wants the two of you to try Apparating to your own homes today—just to the pavement outside please, I’ve got Aurors stationed outside each address in case this is us being too ambitious, but I don’t want them to have to break into your houses to rescue you. It’s just a precaution though, Hermione reckons that now you can touch other people, and the distance thing has been getting better, it should be safe—it’s been over a month.”

Draco knew it would be safe, but he doubted the spell had disintegrated entirely; they might be able to sleep in separate bedrooms, or hug their own friends, but he still ached with the urge to reach out and touch. And it was worse than at the beginning; he didn’t just want to strip Potter bare and abandon himself to wringing moans and sweat and begging from him any more. The spell had settled somewhere deeper. Draco wanted to tuck that stray curl of hair behind Potter’s ear, he wanted to trace Potter’s knuckles and find out if the soft dips of delicate skin between bone and scar were as soft as they looked. He wanted to see him sleeping in moonlight, and sipping tea in the morning.

“That’s splendid,” Draco said, instead of _one more night, please?_

They walked out of the Ministry together, not touching but close. It hadn’t taken long for the habit to form, and Draco hoped in vain that it also wouldn’t take long for him to forget what it felt like to orbit so closely to Potter. They were both quiet as they walked toward the Apparition point outside the Ministry, and Draco still wasn’t sure what Potter’s silence meant. It was probably relief. Draco hadn’t made things easy, he never made anything easy for anyone. But he could try, now.

“Well, Potter. Thank you. I’m sure it wasn’t quite the security detail you had signed up for but I appreciate you being—well—decent about things.” 

Potter shook his head, that earnest twist of his eyebrows speaking to his ideas of decency, but he managed not to argue with Draco. “You’re right, I didn’t see it coming. But. It’s been alright, Malfoy.” And then he put his hand out, open and waiting. 

For a moment Draco faltered, memory overlaying the moment; of hoped-for contact that was rejected, of other hands and other touches he had tried to escape. But Potter’s eyes were clear, and his hand was steady, and warm and strong when Draco reached out to clasp it. It was a brief handshake, and the world didn’t shift on its axis, and Draco was just as filled with worried wanting as he had been before, and Potter just smiled and let go before stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking away. 

Draco watched the slope of Potter’s shoulders as he moved, just as tempting and just as threatening as it had been a month and a half ago. He waited until Potter turned the corner, without looking back, before he drew his wand and Apparated home. 

The flat was quiet around him, the empty quiet of a home that had been left unattended. The silence of one person standing still, of books and furniture and heavy curtains standing still, no water running in the bathroom, no kettle whistling in the kitchen. He was alone.

  


* * *

  


It had been a week since he last saw Malfoy, since Harry had forced himself to let go of his pale hand and walk away and not look back. It had been a week of feeling strangely off-balance without the smell of bergamot wafting from the bathroom while Malfoy showered, or the books and paperwork piled on coffee tables, without the sharp asides and unexpected moments of sincerity.

But now Malfoy was standing on his doorstep, and he had a book in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, and he was talking quickly about thanks and the quiet of his flat not being right and how Harry had bought the bottle they’d shared on their last night in a safe-house, so really, he _owed_ Harry.

“Come in then.” Harry said, and when Malfoy breezed in they didn’t touch but Harry could smell his expensive cologne with its hint of bergamot and sage, and his fingers tingled even though the bonding spell had dissolved entirely since they last saw each other, and he knew he shouldn’t—couldn’t—invade Malfoy’s carefully-maintained boundaries with anything so intimate as even a touch to the shoulder. But _Merlin_ , he wanted to. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

Malfoy just rolled his eyes and waved the wine bottle in his face—Casillero del Diablo, it was the same red Harry had picked out when they were in Brighton for the night. “Wine, Potter, did you miss the wine? Show me where there’s a comfortable armchair and fetch some glasses.”

“You know I’m not working for you anymore, right? I wasn’t before, but I’m _really_ not now.” 

“Did you want some of this or not?”

Harry pointed toward the living room door and jogged to the kitchen to fetch the nice wine glasses Cho had bought him when he’d finished the renovations on the house; he’d listened to Malfoy bitch enough about drinking wine out of tumblers the last six weeks to last a lifetime. He wasn’t sure what Malfoy was doing in his house, on a Thursday night, but he didn’t want to jeopardise it by bringing out insufficient glassware.

Malfoy had already settled himself into the wingback armchair next to the sofa when Harry came back in with his suitably elegant glass offering. Harry bit back a grin at the sight of him in the comfortable red chair, and restrained himself from commenting by the skin of his teeth.

“Give me those glasses and put the Wireless on. I’ll pour.”

“Don’t want to talk to me then?”

Malfoy sent him a flat look. “Do you want to talk to me?”

“Seems the thing to do, seeing as you’re here, in my house.”

Malfoy fiddled with the book in his lap, thumbing at the corner of well-worn pages; it was the same novel he’d been reading on their last night before Albright was caught. “I sort of wanted to just sit quietly—you know, like we did—” He broke off, a tense set to his jaw.

This was an offer, this was more than Harry had thought he’d get at the end of what had been merely an inconvenience for him, but what was clearly an ordeal for Malfoy. He’d never explained _exactly_ why he didn’t want to be touched, and he didn’t need to; he didn’t owe an explanation to anyone, and certainly not to Harry. But he’d left enough specific silences, dropped enough unintentional clues, for Harry to have a good idea what had caused it. So _anything_ Malfoy was willing to offer up was an unexpected boon, even this; a simple evening of shared wine and space.

“I was just working on a new gadget, actually, you might like it.” He ignored Malfoy’s pointed expression. “I think it’s going to be spider catcher, a humane one.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, just pushed a generously-filled wine glass towards Harry before sitting back and opening the paperback resting on his knee. Harry took a sip—fruity and rich—and reached for the small silver device he had been working on for the last few days. It was admission enough that Malfoy hadn’t loudly denied having any interest in the idea; not that he could have denied anything at all. He’d made Harry scoop up a spider he’d found in one of their tiny bedrooms during their enforced cohabitation, and had loudly insisted that he mustn’t kill it, he had even watched from the window as Harry carefully deposited it outside in the hedge to make sure. That was the night Harry wondered if it was just the spell that made him want to sit closer to Malfoy, to maybe let their legs touch while they listened to the Wireless and argued about the Quidditch results. He was sure now—it wasn’t just the spell.

So Harry tinkered, and Draco read, and the evening fell quiet around them. The window was open; it had been a hot afternoon, and it was only the scent of rain on the pavement outside that announced the arrival of the drop of the sun into a drizzly night. Draco was quiet, but even his peace was sharp. Harry dared to watch him while he was safely absorbed in his novel; he was so close, but as distant as the moon. Harry wondered what it must be like, to be someone who doesn’t need anybody else, who holds himself so aloof, so self-contained, who sails through life untouched and untouchable.

But Malfoy looked up and took a sip of his wine, so Harry ducked his head back down and lost himself in fiddling with the tiny cogs and careful charms that would let his little device be useful. He was so intent that he barely paid attention to the too-loud clink of Malfoy’s glass being set down, not until the rustle of fabric announced movement and caught his notice. He looked up from his busy hands to watch as Malfoy stood and walked towards him—he was wearing socks, striped socks, _Harry’s_ striped socks (maybe they got mixed up in the wash while they were hopping safe-houses) and for some reason that made something soft and eager leap and flutter in Harry’s chest. 

Harry set aside his half-finished spider catcher, and looked up to Malfoy’s face. He was very close, standing between Harry’s legs, his knees almost touching the seat of the sofa, and the expression on his face was new; it wasn’t the hard wall of distrust that had faced him when they were first cursed, and it wasn’t the flushed surprise revealed when Harry had dived on top of him to cover him from the Fiendfyre. Malfoy looked resolved, and more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him before, and Harry wondered, but forbade himself from assuming, from hoping.

“What can I do for you, Malfoy?”

“I want—” Malfoy actually bit his lip, and Harry _wanted_. “Can I—?”

Harry nodded before Malfoy could finish, but managed to hold back the embarrassing _yes, anything you want_ before it fell out, irreversible, between them. 

It was enough for Malfoy though, because he reached out and carefully ran his fingers through Harry’s hair and tucked it behind his ear. And it was nothing really, it was the simplest of gestures, but Harry’s breath caught in his chest and his pulse pounded in his ears because Malfoy was _touching him_ and there wasn’t any spell at play, there wasn’t any compulsion. Neither of them had anything stronger than half a glass of red in their system, and Malfoy was doing this because he wanted to.

“Malfoy, I—”

“Draco. You called me Draco, before. Don’t make this weirder than it has to be.”

“I think it’s going to be a bit weird anyway, isn't it?” Malfoy just rolled his eyes, so Harry reached up to bring him closer, to pull him down onto his lap, but hesitated before he made contact. “Tell me, if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop. Touch me.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, leave a comment below and come and join me on [Tumblr](https://shealwaysreads.tumblr.com/) ❤️


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